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xp_logsFirst cab off the rank, as per this email.
A deal was a deal.
Amanda hesitated outside the office that had become Dr Samson’s, working up the courage to reach out and turn the doorknob. It was the last place in the world she wanted to be (with possible exception being anywhere near Jamie right now), but she’d promised Pete, and that promise was the only thing keeping her off the plane to London on a one-way ticket that afternoon.
So, nothing for it then. She reached into her pocket, cupped Romany’s Geiger-counter crystal in her hand, feeling the small amount of mystic energy it contained flow into her, calming her jitters. She usually didn’t have to touch something to absorb its power, but since she’d been effectively mainlining whatever-the-fuck it was that powered the groundskeeper, smaller items lacked the strength to give her more than a mild buzz. Touching them helped, she found. Strengthened by the small charge, she tapped on the door.
"Come in," came a man’s voice – it was what Amanda thought of as a typical psychiatrist voice, calm, soothing. She squared her shoulders and opened the door.
"Ms Sefton?" Samson looked up from the notes he’d been going over at the sound of the door opening. "I’m Doctor Samson."
"Amanda. If yer gunna be picking me brain, you might as well use me first name," she said with a touch of bravado.
"Amanda, then. Come on in." Samson’s tone was neither overly professional, not too friendly. From the files Moira had shown him, he knew the girl was a seasoned veteran of the social worker circuit and would react badly if pushed too hard. And Moira had seemed most anxious that something be done for the mansion’s newest troublemaker.
Amanda came in, closing the door behind her. She was wearing the same t-shirt and jeans she’d been wearing all week: the black shirt hid the stains, but was stiff with grime, and the faded blue jeans (the holes in the knees revealed a pair of black tights) had a grey tinge. Her hair was greasy and dull, flopping into a face that was for once devoid of make-up, and far too pale and thin – her eyes were huge in that face, and her cheekbones were beginning to become too prominent.
"So, here I am," she said, trying to maintain the tough tone, but for a moment it slipped, revealing a deeply afraid young girl. A good sign, Samson thought – she wasn’t completely closed to the idea of seeing him, of getting help. Help which her file, and her actions of that week, told him was well overdue.
"Indeed you are," he said with a smile. "Take a seat, wherever you feel comfortable."
"Mind if I smoke?" she asked, heading for the easy chair by the window. Her hands were shoved in the pocket of her jeans, toying with the cigarette pack and lighter there.
Samson observed the fidgeting hands and the way she put them in her pockets to hide it, the twitchy movements, the way, once she sat down, she kept changing positions every few minutes, unable to keep still. There was something there, more than the usual first-patient nervousness, he noted. "If it helps. But I’d prefer it if you opened the window – there’s an ashtray on the sill." His voice took on a note of wry amusement. "You’re not the first person to ask me that."
"You should see the back porch after classtime," she said, cigarette already half-way to her mouth. She paused before lighting it to open the window slightly, and then took a long breath of smoke, the nicotine easing her jangling nerves. "Right smoker’s club we got out there. Should put in some armchairs an’ hire a snooty butler." Her immediate concerns settled, she turned her attention back fully to the large man at the desk. He didn’t look like the typical shrink, she was surprised and relieved to notice; those worthies employed by the British civil service to deal with the needs of Social Services tended to be either cold, stiff and humourless, or flaky hippy types. "So, this is where you say anythin’ we talk about stays between us, but you take notes any way, right?"
"You’ve either been talking to some of your classmates, or you’ve done this before," Samson observed dryly. She shrugged.
"Twelve social workers in five years. Couple of court-appointment child therapists. That prat medical officer from the Brighton nick. You get t’ know the drill. It’s all bollocks – the notes go on yer file or get turned into some report for the beak in court."
"Well, there’s no court here, and Professor Xavier is no judge, so you can rest assured I won’t be writing any reports. And my notes are for myself – I doubt anyone else could read them. I won’t discuss anything you say here with anyone." He lay down his pen. "But, if it makes you uncomfortable, me taking notes, I can stop."
"Yer tryin’ awful hard t’ make sure I’m comfy, doc," Amanda observed. She shrugged again, taking a drag of her cigarette. "’S all right, I don’t really care." With an impish grin, she added. "Wouldn’t want t’ deprive you of yer habit, since you were so nice t’ let me have mine." She flicked ash pointedly into the plastic ashtray.
He chuckled. "Indeed." He picked up the pen again. Amanda was, he realised, rather more clever than her appearance and accent – pure South London – allowed, and she was adept at using that cleverness to gain insight into other people’s personalities. A conflict, perhaps, with the lack of empathy the incident with the potion had indicated, but with her background, not surprising. "So, now we’re both comfortable…" He said the last word with a slight emphasis, to let her know he’d taken her comment on board: "How about we talk a little about why you’re here?"
"That’s easy. Pete an’ the X geezer insisted. Come see you or get chucked out was pretty much the deal."
"So you don’t want to be here, talking to me." It was a statement, not a question. "Look, Amanda, I’m going to be straight with you here. The Professor and mr Wisdom did send you to see me, yes, but not to punish you. They feel you could benefit from talking to me. But it’s not going to work if you don’t want to be here. I think I can help you with certain issues, but I’d rather not waste both our time."
Amanda blinked, surprised. Every other mental health professional she’d ever been made to see, they were either just as resentful of the situation as she was, with the added workload she caused (she’d see her file on many a desk – it blocked out the sun, just about), or they’d been all over her, wanting to be her friend, wanting to help, oozing fake sincerity. None had been straight with her before. She watched the smoke curling from the glowing tip of her cigarette, swirling in the air, and then spoke:
"They told you, about what I done? About the potion?" Her voice had lost some of its hard, defensive edge.
"I’ve been told, yes. But I’d like to hear it from you." Taking her words – correctly - as an indication of her willingness to try him out, Samson leaned back in his chair.
Amanda kept her eyes on the view outside the window, pausing now and again to take a drag on the rapidly-diminishing cigarette. "Ramesy’d been mopin’ ‘about the place for ages, cut up ‘cause the girl he ‘loved’ didn’t love him. Right painful it all was, all that sighin’ an’ moanin’ and mushy music comin’ from his room; every time she walked past, he’d get this right stupid look on his face, like he was in some crap soppy movie or somethin’. An’ he was so bloody tragic about it: ‘You can’t just turn off feelin’s, Amanda’, he’d say. ‘I love her an’ I can’t change that,’ all that tripe. So I decided t’ give him a chance t’ get what he wanted."
"Let’s stop just there. Why do you say his feelings for this girl were ‘tripe’?" Samson remained where he was, leaning back in his chair.
"Because it all is, all that love shite. It’s somethin’ they make you believe ‘cause it makes you easier t’ control. You say ‘I love you’ an’ it’s supposed to make everythin’ better." Amanda curled her lip. "Bollocks to that."
"Okay, so you don’t believe in love. What about what you said about changing feelings. You think people can control what they feel?"
"Of course they can. Just takes some gumption." Amanda stubbed out her cigarette, fished in the packet for another. "Goes with what I was saying about love bein’ shite. It’s all made out t’ be a lot more complicated that it is. You meet someone, you fancy ‘em, you shag an’ it’s done. If they’re a good shag you stick around for a bit, ‘til they fuck you over or you fuck them over. Ramsey just don’t have any spine – he lets everyone push him around."
"So you set a lot of store on free will."
"Too bloody right I do. You’re the only one who you can trust, an’ you shouldn’t take any shite from anyone."
"And this potion? Tell me about that. What does it do, exactly?"
Amanda eyed Samson suspiciously. "I see where yer goin’ with this, doc. Yer gunna say that me brewin’ that potion was takin’ away people’s free will."
"And if I did say that, what would your reaction be?" Samson asked mildly, but his eyes intent. Amanda squirmed uncomfortably.
"I’d say you were a right sneaky bastard and never play chess with you," she said, tartly. Then she sighed. "Look, I know that makin’ that potion was a bad idea, only I didn’t think of that at the time. All I was thinkin’ of was showin’ Ramsey up. He thought he was so bloody better ‘n me, with his talk of it bein’ about more ‘n sex an’ how feelin’s are important an’ how it wasn’t right t’ make people do what you wanted ‘em to. He didn’t even know it, but he was makin’ me feel right dirty. Ain’t never felt that way before, even when I was…" She stopped herself, and then looked Samson steadily in the eye as she continued. "Even when I was givin’ blow jobs t’ some wanker for a quid in the alley behind the Rose and Crown."
If she hoped for some indication he was shocked, she was to be disappointed. "Sometimes desperate times make for desperate acts," he observed. "You lived on the streets for a time, yes?"
"A year an’ a half the last time. I used t’ run away a bit, spend a few weeks or months or however long it took ‘em t’ find me livin’ rough, an’ then it was another foster family or the Home." She shrugged. "I did what I had to."
"You’re a young woman of some resourcefulness," Samson said. "Tell me, the other students, what do you think of them?"
"Apart from Ramsey, you mean? Some of ‘em are all right." She shrugged, and tapped ash thoughtfully. "Ones like Ange an’ Remy an’ Marie an’ Sarah, they know what it’s like out there. Know… where I’m comin’ from. The rest…? Some I can take – Shinobi’s sticking by me, for some insane reason, an’ Marie-Ange an’ I were doin’ okay until I fucked things up, an’ Paige has been a reasonable roomie, doesn’t snore or complain about me magic stuff stinkin’ the place out. The others… Well, it don’t matter what I think of ‘em, they’ve decided I’m an evil whore an’ they won’t let anyone tell ‘em otherwise."
"Have you tried? Telling them otherwise?" Samson kept his tone conversational: sounding accusatory would only alienate Amanda, and she seemed to be making progress in trusting him. Certainly she was being frank with him.
Amanda squirmed a bit, and her foot began waggling nervously. "Not in so many words…" she began, flicking ash again with fingers that trembled slightly. "I read the journals, saw what I’d done, how people were reactin’, and I… well, I hid."
"Understandable, considering. It would be a lot to deal with." Again Samson’s tone was neutral, but Amanda frowned.
"I ain’t a coward, mind," she said, defensively. "I just needed t’ have some time t’ think, without worryin’ ‘bout someone crashin’ through me door an’ havin’ a go." When Samson simply nodded, she took a nervous puff of her cigarette – almost down to the filter already – and began chewing on her thumbnail, seemingly without noticing. "All right, I was scared. I come here an’ all of a sudden people are treatin’ me like I matter, an’ I’m doin’ good in the medlab with Lorna an’ Ange, but then once there’s no more healin’ t’ be done I got t’ see if they still want me around. So I start screwing up, see how bad I can be before they toss me out. An’ they’re tellin’ me they won’t, an’ there are people standin’ up for me an’ I have friends, but now I think I’ve pushed it too far an’ I don’t wanna go." Amada stabbed the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray almost savagely. "But it keeps happenin’ – I find somewhere that’s willin’ t’ give me a chance an’ I do somethin’ t’ fuck it up. Or the magic does. But I’m runnin’ out of chances. I’m nearly seventeen an’ I’m livin’ on the streets, an’ the only future ahead of me is bein’ a tom an’ getting' meself a nice little smack habit." At the mention of habits, Amanda caught herself and reached for another cigarette whilst she reined in her thoughts. "I wanna fix this," she said at last. "But I don’t know how. Never had t’ fix anythin’ before. An’ I don’t get people. There’s all this emotional stuff they expect me t’ understand, only I don’t."
"Well, communication is usually a good way to find things out, to understand," Samson suggested. "You’re making a start right now, being here and talking to me."
"Alison said somethin’ like that t’ me once. Only I wasn’t in a state t’ listen properly," Amanda said reflectively. "You think… I should try an’ talk t’ people? The ones I…"
Samson nodded. "I think that it would help, yes. Part of learning how to fix your mistakes is to actually be around to do that. Now, if you’re worried about talking to them on your own, I might be able to arrange a mediation of some sort."
"You’d be the ref?" she asked, body language loosening just a tiny bit at the thought she didn’t have to do all this alone.
"Something like that, yes. I’d have to arrange it. And I certainly wouldn’t expect you to talk to all of them at once – there are limits, you know." He smiled at her, and she nodded, relieved. "In the meantime… you said there were people who were supporting you? Friends?"
She nodded. "Shinobi’s been a trooper, an’ he said Sarah was stickin’ up for me on the journals. An’ Ange seems t’ be still talkin’ t’ me."
"Well, I’d suggest that rather than you shutting yourself away in some forgotten corner, you be with those friends. Being alone… it’s not helping, is it?" Again, she nodded, more hesitantly this time. "Then I think it’s time you came in from the cold, Amanda. You don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to, but I think it would be good for you to at least sleep in your own bed. And talking to people is an excellent way to understand them, or so they taught me in shrink school."
She grinned briefly, wryly. "That parlour ain’t the most comfy place in the world, no." She toyed with her lighter. "I’ll… think about it. I’m not sure if I can…"
Samson nodded; if he pushed the point, she’d lock up on him. And it was better if she made the decision. Amanda was a smart girl and she’d been doing a lot of thinking over the part few days – her insight into her behaviour showed that. She had the ability to make the right choice, he just hoped he’d given her enough reason to. "That’s all right – it’s not an easy thing to do, face up to our mistakes. And you’ve already done the hardest part, with that admission of guilt you made on the journals." He picked up his pen, made a couple of notes. "I’d like to talk to you again – I think there’s some things I can help you with. Would you consider that?"
"Well, it’s not as if I have much of…" Amanda began in her usual mocking way, but then she stopped, and added, almost shyly: "I’m sorry. Habit. Um, yeah. I would. Consider it, I mean. You ain’t like me other shrinks, an’ I think… I think it’s time I sorted meself out. Before I hurt anyone else." She grinned wryly. "Never used t’ care ‘bout other people, an’ that scares me."
"It’s a good sign. It means you care now." Samson picked up a card from the holder on his desk. "Here’s my number – you need anything, you call. I’ll set up your next appointment for Monday, and in the meantime, I would like you to start looking after yourself again. The basics – food, sleep, human contact. As much as you can feel you can handle. Can you do that?"
Amanda unfolded herself from the chair and crossed to the desk, stopping barely arm’s reach from it. "I’ll try," she said. "Can’t promise more n’ that."
"No, you can’t." He extended the card, and she took it from him gingerly. Her hand shook. "Monday, then?"
She shoved the card in her pocket, next to the crystal Moira had loaned her, and nodded. "Monday."
A deal was a deal.
Amanda hesitated outside the office that had become Dr Samson’s, working up the courage to reach out and turn the doorknob. It was the last place in the world she wanted to be (with possible exception being anywhere near Jamie right now), but she’d promised Pete, and that promise was the only thing keeping her off the plane to London on a one-way ticket that afternoon.
So, nothing for it then. She reached into her pocket, cupped Romany’s Geiger-counter crystal in her hand, feeling the small amount of mystic energy it contained flow into her, calming her jitters. She usually didn’t have to touch something to absorb its power, but since she’d been effectively mainlining whatever-the-fuck it was that powered the groundskeeper, smaller items lacked the strength to give her more than a mild buzz. Touching them helped, she found. Strengthened by the small charge, she tapped on the door.
"Come in," came a man’s voice – it was what Amanda thought of as a typical psychiatrist voice, calm, soothing. She squared her shoulders and opened the door.
"Ms Sefton?" Samson looked up from the notes he’d been going over at the sound of the door opening. "I’m Doctor Samson."
"Amanda. If yer gunna be picking me brain, you might as well use me first name," she said with a touch of bravado.
"Amanda, then. Come on in." Samson’s tone was neither overly professional, not too friendly. From the files Moira had shown him, he knew the girl was a seasoned veteran of the social worker circuit and would react badly if pushed too hard. And Moira had seemed most anxious that something be done for the mansion’s newest troublemaker.
Amanda came in, closing the door behind her. She was wearing the same t-shirt and jeans she’d been wearing all week: the black shirt hid the stains, but was stiff with grime, and the faded blue jeans (the holes in the knees revealed a pair of black tights) had a grey tinge. Her hair was greasy and dull, flopping into a face that was for once devoid of make-up, and far too pale and thin – her eyes were huge in that face, and her cheekbones were beginning to become too prominent.
"So, here I am," she said, trying to maintain the tough tone, but for a moment it slipped, revealing a deeply afraid young girl. A good sign, Samson thought – she wasn’t completely closed to the idea of seeing him, of getting help. Help which her file, and her actions of that week, told him was well overdue.
"Indeed you are," he said with a smile. "Take a seat, wherever you feel comfortable."
"Mind if I smoke?" she asked, heading for the easy chair by the window. Her hands were shoved in the pocket of her jeans, toying with the cigarette pack and lighter there.
Samson observed the fidgeting hands and the way she put them in her pockets to hide it, the twitchy movements, the way, once she sat down, she kept changing positions every few minutes, unable to keep still. There was something there, more than the usual first-patient nervousness, he noted. "If it helps. But I’d prefer it if you opened the window – there’s an ashtray on the sill." His voice took on a note of wry amusement. "You’re not the first person to ask me that."
"You should see the back porch after classtime," she said, cigarette already half-way to her mouth. She paused before lighting it to open the window slightly, and then took a long breath of smoke, the nicotine easing her jangling nerves. "Right smoker’s club we got out there. Should put in some armchairs an’ hire a snooty butler." Her immediate concerns settled, she turned her attention back fully to the large man at the desk. He didn’t look like the typical shrink, she was surprised and relieved to notice; those worthies employed by the British civil service to deal with the needs of Social Services tended to be either cold, stiff and humourless, or flaky hippy types. "So, this is where you say anythin’ we talk about stays between us, but you take notes any way, right?"
"You’ve either been talking to some of your classmates, or you’ve done this before," Samson observed dryly. She shrugged.
"Twelve social workers in five years. Couple of court-appointment child therapists. That prat medical officer from the Brighton nick. You get t’ know the drill. It’s all bollocks – the notes go on yer file or get turned into some report for the beak in court."
"Well, there’s no court here, and Professor Xavier is no judge, so you can rest assured I won’t be writing any reports. And my notes are for myself – I doubt anyone else could read them. I won’t discuss anything you say here with anyone." He lay down his pen. "But, if it makes you uncomfortable, me taking notes, I can stop."
"Yer tryin’ awful hard t’ make sure I’m comfy, doc," Amanda observed. She shrugged again, taking a drag of her cigarette. "’S all right, I don’t really care." With an impish grin, she added. "Wouldn’t want t’ deprive you of yer habit, since you were so nice t’ let me have mine." She flicked ash pointedly into the plastic ashtray.
He chuckled. "Indeed." He picked up the pen again. Amanda was, he realised, rather more clever than her appearance and accent – pure South London – allowed, and she was adept at using that cleverness to gain insight into other people’s personalities. A conflict, perhaps, with the lack of empathy the incident with the potion had indicated, but with her background, not surprising. "So, now we’re both comfortable…" He said the last word with a slight emphasis, to let her know he’d taken her comment on board: "How about we talk a little about why you’re here?"
"That’s easy. Pete an’ the X geezer insisted. Come see you or get chucked out was pretty much the deal."
"So you don’t want to be here, talking to me." It was a statement, not a question. "Look, Amanda, I’m going to be straight with you here. The Professor and mr Wisdom did send you to see me, yes, but not to punish you. They feel you could benefit from talking to me. But it’s not going to work if you don’t want to be here. I think I can help you with certain issues, but I’d rather not waste both our time."
Amanda blinked, surprised. Every other mental health professional she’d ever been made to see, they were either just as resentful of the situation as she was, with the added workload she caused (she’d see her file on many a desk – it blocked out the sun, just about), or they’d been all over her, wanting to be her friend, wanting to help, oozing fake sincerity. None had been straight with her before. She watched the smoke curling from the glowing tip of her cigarette, swirling in the air, and then spoke:
"They told you, about what I done? About the potion?" Her voice had lost some of its hard, defensive edge.
"I’ve been told, yes. But I’d like to hear it from you." Taking her words – correctly - as an indication of her willingness to try him out, Samson leaned back in his chair.
Amanda kept her eyes on the view outside the window, pausing now and again to take a drag on the rapidly-diminishing cigarette. "Ramesy’d been mopin’ ‘about the place for ages, cut up ‘cause the girl he ‘loved’ didn’t love him. Right painful it all was, all that sighin’ an’ moanin’ and mushy music comin’ from his room; every time she walked past, he’d get this right stupid look on his face, like he was in some crap soppy movie or somethin’. An’ he was so bloody tragic about it: ‘You can’t just turn off feelin’s, Amanda’, he’d say. ‘I love her an’ I can’t change that,’ all that tripe. So I decided t’ give him a chance t’ get what he wanted."
"Let’s stop just there. Why do you say his feelings for this girl were ‘tripe’?" Samson remained where he was, leaning back in his chair.
"Because it all is, all that love shite. It’s somethin’ they make you believe ‘cause it makes you easier t’ control. You say ‘I love you’ an’ it’s supposed to make everythin’ better." Amanda curled her lip. "Bollocks to that."
"Okay, so you don’t believe in love. What about what you said about changing feelings. You think people can control what they feel?"
"Of course they can. Just takes some gumption." Amanda stubbed out her cigarette, fished in the packet for another. "Goes with what I was saying about love bein’ shite. It’s all made out t’ be a lot more complicated that it is. You meet someone, you fancy ‘em, you shag an’ it’s done. If they’re a good shag you stick around for a bit, ‘til they fuck you over or you fuck them over. Ramsey just don’t have any spine – he lets everyone push him around."
"So you set a lot of store on free will."
"Too bloody right I do. You’re the only one who you can trust, an’ you shouldn’t take any shite from anyone."
"And this potion? Tell me about that. What does it do, exactly?"
Amanda eyed Samson suspiciously. "I see where yer goin’ with this, doc. Yer gunna say that me brewin’ that potion was takin’ away people’s free will."
"And if I did say that, what would your reaction be?" Samson asked mildly, but his eyes intent. Amanda squirmed uncomfortably.
"I’d say you were a right sneaky bastard and never play chess with you," she said, tartly. Then she sighed. "Look, I know that makin’ that potion was a bad idea, only I didn’t think of that at the time. All I was thinkin’ of was showin’ Ramsey up. He thought he was so bloody better ‘n me, with his talk of it bein’ about more ‘n sex an’ how feelin’s are important an’ how it wasn’t right t’ make people do what you wanted ‘em to. He didn’t even know it, but he was makin’ me feel right dirty. Ain’t never felt that way before, even when I was…" She stopped herself, and then looked Samson steadily in the eye as she continued. "Even when I was givin’ blow jobs t’ some wanker for a quid in the alley behind the Rose and Crown."
If she hoped for some indication he was shocked, she was to be disappointed. "Sometimes desperate times make for desperate acts," he observed. "You lived on the streets for a time, yes?"
"A year an’ a half the last time. I used t’ run away a bit, spend a few weeks or months or however long it took ‘em t’ find me livin’ rough, an’ then it was another foster family or the Home." She shrugged. "I did what I had to."
"You’re a young woman of some resourcefulness," Samson said. "Tell me, the other students, what do you think of them?"
"Apart from Ramsey, you mean? Some of ‘em are all right." She shrugged, and tapped ash thoughtfully. "Ones like Ange an’ Remy an’ Marie an’ Sarah, they know what it’s like out there. Know… where I’m comin’ from. The rest…? Some I can take – Shinobi’s sticking by me, for some insane reason, an’ Marie-Ange an’ I were doin’ okay until I fucked things up, an’ Paige has been a reasonable roomie, doesn’t snore or complain about me magic stuff stinkin’ the place out. The others… Well, it don’t matter what I think of ‘em, they’ve decided I’m an evil whore an’ they won’t let anyone tell ‘em otherwise."
"Have you tried? Telling them otherwise?" Samson kept his tone conversational: sounding accusatory would only alienate Amanda, and she seemed to be making progress in trusting him. Certainly she was being frank with him.
Amanda squirmed a bit, and her foot began waggling nervously. "Not in so many words…" she began, flicking ash again with fingers that trembled slightly. "I read the journals, saw what I’d done, how people were reactin’, and I… well, I hid."
"Understandable, considering. It would be a lot to deal with." Again Samson’s tone was neutral, but Amanda frowned.
"I ain’t a coward, mind," she said, defensively. "I just needed t’ have some time t’ think, without worryin’ ‘bout someone crashin’ through me door an’ havin’ a go." When Samson simply nodded, she took a nervous puff of her cigarette – almost down to the filter already – and began chewing on her thumbnail, seemingly without noticing. "All right, I was scared. I come here an’ all of a sudden people are treatin’ me like I matter, an’ I’m doin’ good in the medlab with Lorna an’ Ange, but then once there’s no more healin’ t’ be done I got t’ see if they still want me around. So I start screwing up, see how bad I can be before they toss me out. An’ they’re tellin’ me they won’t, an’ there are people standin’ up for me an’ I have friends, but now I think I’ve pushed it too far an’ I don’t wanna go." Amada stabbed the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray almost savagely. "But it keeps happenin’ – I find somewhere that’s willin’ t’ give me a chance an’ I do somethin’ t’ fuck it up. Or the magic does. But I’m runnin’ out of chances. I’m nearly seventeen an’ I’m livin’ on the streets, an’ the only future ahead of me is bein’ a tom an’ getting' meself a nice little smack habit." At the mention of habits, Amanda caught herself and reached for another cigarette whilst she reined in her thoughts. "I wanna fix this," she said at last. "But I don’t know how. Never had t’ fix anythin’ before. An’ I don’t get people. There’s all this emotional stuff they expect me t’ understand, only I don’t."
"Well, communication is usually a good way to find things out, to understand," Samson suggested. "You’re making a start right now, being here and talking to me."
"Alison said somethin’ like that t’ me once. Only I wasn’t in a state t’ listen properly," Amanda said reflectively. "You think… I should try an’ talk t’ people? The ones I…"
Samson nodded. "I think that it would help, yes. Part of learning how to fix your mistakes is to actually be around to do that. Now, if you’re worried about talking to them on your own, I might be able to arrange a mediation of some sort."
"You’d be the ref?" she asked, body language loosening just a tiny bit at the thought she didn’t have to do all this alone.
"Something like that, yes. I’d have to arrange it. And I certainly wouldn’t expect you to talk to all of them at once – there are limits, you know." He smiled at her, and she nodded, relieved. "In the meantime… you said there were people who were supporting you? Friends?"
She nodded. "Shinobi’s been a trooper, an’ he said Sarah was stickin’ up for me on the journals. An’ Ange seems t’ be still talkin’ t’ me."
"Well, I’d suggest that rather than you shutting yourself away in some forgotten corner, you be with those friends. Being alone… it’s not helping, is it?" Again, she nodded, more hesitantly this time. "Then I think it’s time you came in from the cold, Amanda. You don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to, but I think it would be good for you to at least sleep in your own bed. And talking to people is an excellent way to understand them, or so they taught me in shrink school."
She grinned briefly, wryly. "That parlour ain’t the most comfy place in the world, no." She toyed with her lighter. "I’ll… think about it. I’m not sure if I can…"
Samson nodded; if he pushed the point, she’d lock up on him. And it was better if she made the decision. Amanda was a smart girl and she’d been doing a lot of thinking over the part few days – her insight into her behaviour showed that. She had the ability to make the right choice, he just hoped he’d given her enough reason to. "That’s all right – it’s not an easy thing to do, face up to our mistakes. And you’ve already done the hardest part, with that admission of guilt you made on the journals." He picked up his pen, made a couple of notes. "I’d like to talk to you again – I think there’s some things I can help you with. Would you consider that?"
"Well, it’s not as if I have much of…" Amanda began in her usual mocking way, but then she stopped, and added, almost shyly: "I’m sorry. Habit. Um, yeah. I would. Consider it, I mean. You ain’t like me other shrinks, an’ I think… I think it’s time I sorted meself out. Before I hurt anyone else." She grinned wryly. "Never used t’ care ‘bout other people, an’ that scares me."
"It’s a good sign. It means you care now." Samson picked up a card from the holder on his desk. "Here’s my number – you need anything, you call. I’ll set up your next appointment for Monday, and in the meantime, I would like you to start looking after yourself again. The basics – food, sleep, human contact. As much as you can feel you can handle. Can you do that?"
Amanda unfolded herself from the chair and crossed to the desk, stopping barely arm’s reach from it. "I’ll try," she said. "Can’t promise more n’ that."
"No, you can’t." He extended the card, and she took it from him gingerly. Her hand shook. "Monday, then?"
She shoved the card in her pocket, next to the crystal Moira had loaned her, and nodded. "Monday."
